Choice
by MMcIntyre
Summary: The stage is set for the final drama of the Hunger Games, and only a pair of sisters survive. Left with a choice between death or killing her own sister, what will the heroine of the Games choose?


The light of the Capitol seal glinted off the golden horn, casting shadows over my sister's face. The cavernous tones of the anthem played on; as she peered on to see if it was the end. Finally, two faces flashed across the sky, then vanished like fog with the afternoon's onset. I sighed. I had dreaded this, but its sudden onset shocked me. Just my luck, both the other guys knock each other off. What are the chances?

"This is it. The end game."

"One more night. Our opponents died today, it's enough gore to buy us a peaceful night." This was just like my sister. She would hold on to our bond, to what made us together, as long as possible. She was loyal and true to me, even though I didn't deserve it. Despite the fact that superficially, we clung to our old life as sisters, we'd moved on to being opponents. Only one of us could survive.

We settled in under a nearby stand of trees.

"I've got first watch," I told her, knowing that even though we were the only tributes, the Capitol wasn't done being vicious with its mutts and traps. I clambered up the cornucopia, getting a good vantage point, and took out my knife. A tiny ruby glinted off its blade, then dripped into my hand. The blood flowed over it. There was blood on my hands...

A young girl looked up at me trustingly, asking enthusiastically about my plans to take out the threats of the arena. The morning air whistled through the trees we hid in, a tiny breeze blowing away the dust. Then a movement broke the stillness, the branch of a low-lying bush rustled the slightest amount. The breeze it was not. I knew that a pair of malevolent eyes watched me, but I knew to seize that as an opportunity. It would be fish in a barrel, if I had the ruthlessness to use the bait. "I'll go forage a little, and think. The plan will be good," I reassured. I turned my back and took out my daggers, one for each hand. I walked out of our camp, and then crouched in the bushes, lying in wait. Sure enough, a small cry pierced the forest stillness, signal ling that it was time to exploit the element of surprise. I dashed into the verdant clearing. The attacker was a boy, about six feet tall, from District Eleven, if I recalled correctly. He had his back to my position, and a sword in his hand, slashing down at my little ally's chest mercilessly. I tossed my dagger, and it flew straight and true, hitting his back with a most sickening thump. One down, I thought. A step closer to victory, to survival. Then I bent over, moving the corpse off my twelve-year-old ally's motionless form. I knew at a glance that the damage was irreparable, a bloody mess where the flesh of her chest should be. Nausea mounted my throat. She whimpered my name, and it felt like a condemnation. She was gone.

I snapped back to the present, sighing. I shouldn't have been so guilty. A double-cross like that would make a Career proud. I began to sigh, then realized that all I'd done lately was sigh. Where was my usual self? I was from the hunting district, and had grown up hunting animals. The execution was the same, I knew. A toss of a knife, the slash of a dagger. But the repercussions of abandoning, no, using that little girl was entirely different. I reminded myself that these were the Hunger Games. Difficult choices were a given, and I had sworn to myself that I would make the right choices and, above all else, survive. But now, more than my life was on the line. My sister was the other choice. I found myself remembering a night months ago.

My sister stood on the doorstep of our house, John's arm around her. I knew the guy from around the district, and he was respectable, kind even. I hadn't even known she was going on a date with him. She hadn't told me. Maybe that was because I'd offer to make him sleep with the fishes, or unnerve him. People weren't nuts about the thief chick. I knew it was wrong, but I peered out the front window, watching the lovers talk. They were close. I could almost see the warmth of their affection. They embraced tenderly, slowly and gingerly working up into the most passionate kiss I'd ever seen.

But what of my current situation, when surviving meant killing the only person I'd ever cared for? There were two choices, and each presented me with its own unique agony to face.

One, I could murder my sister.

Two, I could commit suicide.

Option one presented me with what I came to the arena seeking: a way out, a life, riches and fame. Never again would I have to pick pockets to get by, or go hungry. Life would go on, like it always had. I could continue, leave behind the violence of the arena. Be a mentor, and teach the Tributes of my district the vicious, accept-no-defeat attitude and technique that brought me this far. But as hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine life without my sister. I'd find out, though. I'd survive, like I always had. In my heart of hearts, I knew that the cutthroat thief I'd always been wanted me to choose this option. Survival above all else. It had always been my way. What other choice was there, for one who valued my skin as much as me?

Option two was noble. I would die good, and in that last second, I knew I would forgive myself for all the ill I had done. What awaited me couldn't be that bad. I'd go into a light, or see my dead relatives, right? There was no way to be sure. What would my sister's future as victor mean? She'd be rich and famous, and teach the tributes of our district to fight with honour. I thought of my sister and her boyfriend that one night. The passionate embrace on the porch. They were still together, and had been planning to get engaged before the reaping. His heart had been broken when she was drawn. I had a chance to repair it, to give them a life together. I might even be held up as an example, a Hunger Games hero who ignored the Capitol's rules and played her own way. Who saved a life, at the cost of her own. Envisioning myself as one of my District's honoured dead was strange. What could I do but give the greatest gift, since anything else was selfishness?

The sun rose over the Cornucopia, illuminating the arena. The river that ran around its round edge, which I jokingly called "the river Styx," reflected the lovely light of sunrise. The sky was painted a luminescent pink and orange, like a masterpiece painting of a perfect day. The only imperfection was that the truce was over. My sister was about to become my foe.

I strode over to where she slept, bundled in a sleeping bag. She looked so peaceful, the stressed expression she had worn in the arena swept away by sleep. The choice became clear, in the light of the perfect sunrise. I loved sunrise, since it gave me hope for a new day.

I raised my dagger to deliver the final blow of the Hunger Games.  
~

So what did the girl choose? Did her sister see the next sunrise, or did she pick herself? To ask such a question leads us to the core of the human heart. The ancient tribes of Africa had a myth, about a trickster god that created the world and rules all good things, then threatens to destroy it. The legend says that there is such creativity and light, yet such destruction and darkness in all of us. They say you can choose to have more of either. So which side of herself did the Tribute choose?

Think on it, gentle reader. And remember that each sunrise is a privilege, one that we should love and respect. 


End file.
